


I'll Give You F****** Fluffy

by AtlinMerrick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aggressive sex (consensual), Anal Sex, Breathplay, M/M, Married Sex, rough sex (consensual)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:21:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That's what the old Scotland Yard vet had called John. <em>Fluffy.</em> Well John Watson-Holmes is not fluffy, damn it. And he's going to prove it with some wall-slamming, hell-yes, super-duper aggressive sex with the mister. That'll show <em>them.</em> Oh hell yeah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [AtlinMerrick: I'll Give You F****** Fluffy - Russian translation - Я вам, б…, покажу пушистика](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8169691) by [SilverRaindemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverRaindemon/pseuds/SilverRaindemon)



John started their honeymoon with rose petals, dark as drying blood, on the hotel's king-sized bed.

Over the next two weeks he continued showering his new bridegroom with gifts, including a new mobile that would actually _answer_ when Sherlock yelled at it from across the room; fancy knickers with lace or bows or both; a delicate silver bracelet scribed with their names and wedding date; and a bespoke velvet suit of deepest blue.

Once they returned to 221B the good doctor kept giddily giving. There was a wool scarf with all the colors in sweetheart's eyes, the grey, the green, the halos of cadmium; three sex toys whose use he had to explain; a red-glass Bunsen burner; chocolates for god's sake, boxes of them, the nutty kind that would break the teeth of the over-zealous.

And, scattered amongst these like so much rainbow glitter, John bestowed upon his brand new husband one thousand one hundred sixty four kisses, eleven public gropings, seventy-two whispered I love yous, and more giggles than it's perhaps possible to track.

Yes, six weeks into being married and John Watson's capricious cuteness factor was cranked clean up to eleven. And, as of today, that was so going to be a problem.

_Sigh._

Look, got a minute? Or a few? Good, because I really need to talk to you.

First, let me tell you some things about John Hamish Watson-Holm—what? me? I'm Aurora Aurelia Abbington. Rory? Triple A? The third resident of 221B? The skull on the mantle? We've met for heaven's sake, several times. Remember? With me now? Good. Great. Moving on.

So anyway, the first thing is, John's been smaller than average since he was thirteen. For a long time he was thin too, didn't actually fill out into his current oh-god-yes-I'd-hit- _that_ grown man frame until he was near thirty. So John's very used to being called cute. Endearing. Tiny. Adorable. Fucking cuddly. He may not relish each of these, but honestly, he's completely used to the diminutives at this point.

Then, today, at the Yard, it happened. Maybe it wouldn't have meant much if it had been Lestrade or Sally or even Anderson. Someone he actually _knew._ But a stranger, a man he'd never met, a homicide veteran come for a weekly pub lunch with the old crew, a man who used the terms "day-old stiff," "bloody spray pattern," and "unctuous puncture wounds" in polite conversation, _that man_ congratulated John on his marriage by saying exactly this:

"Never met a newlywed quite so tickled with his missus. Or mister in this case, of course. You're like one of those fluffy little swans whose found his soul mate. Good for you."

John had voiced his surprised thanks, chatted with the guy a bit—that's where day-old stiff, bloody spray pattern, and unctuous puncture wounds came in—concluded the business for which he'd come to the Met in the first place, and only on the walk home did he let the old man's nice words—they were nice, weren't they? yes, they were—form into a little burr in the heel of his shoe, so to speak.

Fluffy? Did that man damn well call him fucking _fluffy?_

John yes-I'm-small-sure-I'm-cute-pinch-my-cheek-fine- _fine_ Watson stopped dead on Pall Mall. He scowled at the little poodle widdling against a tree. His gaze flashed dark at the five year old tapping by in his shiny new shoes. He positively glowered at the little old lady whose cane seemed to be coincidentally keeping rhythm with the little boy.

And there in the middle of a busy London street on a pretty spring day John Watson stood his full five foot six and almost three quarter inches tall—humor him and just say five foot seven, okay?—and said out loud, "I am _not_ fucking fluffy."

So sharply military was the small man's tone the piddling poodle actually clenched.

Oblivious, John continued to no one in particular. "Cute, all right. Cuddly, if you must. Winsome even."

Tentatively the poodle continued to dribble against the tree.

"But I _god damn_ refuse to be _god damn_ fluffy _god damn_ it."

The poodle gave up on his pee-mail and moved on.

Oh just you wait. _Just you wait._ John Watson-Holmes would _prove_ he was not fluffy, he would. John would show everyone how fluffy he so emphatically was not. He could be _anti-_ fluffy, you know, as in…as in…sharp and angley and rough. And he was going to _prove it so help him._

And do you know how John was going to go about proving he emphatically was not fluffy? John was going to go home and have some wall-slamming, hair-pulling, growl-heavy, hell-yes super-duper aggressive sex with the mister.

Oooo, that would so fucking totally show _them._

—

_Actors want to be singers. Singers want to be actors. And apparently fluff writers—me, I know, it's totally me—want to show their I'm-not-always-fluffy chops with, it seems, what my friends and I call slam-him-against-the-wall sex. That, as you may have gathered, is pending._

_P.S. Thank you for saying what I write is fluffy when, indeed, what I write is often fuckin' fluffy. Now, to paraphrase my gifted wall-sex writer friend_ _[Kirakira Nanoda](http://kirakira-nanoda.livejournal.com/), excuse me, I have to go puke up rainbows while the unicorns hold my hair back._


	2. Chapter 2

They didn't talk about the sweet, seaside cock-sucking in the newspapers, did they?

No, no of course not. The press loves drama and dastardly deeds, so they wrote up the whole Aboriginal art-theft thing that happened during the boys' Aussie honeymoon instead; they detailed John and Sherlock's crime-solving daring-do; and the bastards went and left out the stuff that _really_ matters.

And what matters was that, even after two years together, that honeymoon of theirs started John and Sherlock off all over again. It made everything between them new again…at least for those two precious weeks.

Kissing under a night-blue sky so full of new stars that even Sherlock was briefly wowed? Well those kisses were tender, breathy things, two mouths meeting for the first time.

Peering into tide-pools, John listened while Sherlock damn well _deduced_ baby octopus' and anemone and the good doctor murmured, "Brilliant," and "Yes, yes, I can see that," and on several occasions, "Well now I just have to have you, right here, right now, don't I?"

Which leads us to that surfside cock-sucking I so elegantly referred to at the start, yes?

Listen, I can tell you without reservation that in two years at 221B the boys have gone to their knees _everywhere._ John, when he crawled under their desk that time and proceeded to suck Sherlock off while the great detective _solved a case on the phone._ The stairway leading to the second bedroom, where John sassily blocked the way with his all-fours nude body to apologize for screwing up the human-molars-in-lye-and-lemon-juice experiment. In the shower, that time Sherlock got in fully-dressed and proceeded to blow John with such greedy virtuosity that the good doctor completely forgave Sherlock for using a month of bills for kindling.

Yes, yes, yes, the boys are old-hands at giving one another a hand…or mouth…or arse if it comes to that. And it very often does _come_ to that.

But on those Aussie sands? It was something new again, especially for John. It was something sweet, tender, and oh-god-frequent. As they ambled down a midnight shore, John would tug his husband still, and he'd kneel and sometimes he'd pull Sherlock down with him, and other times he wouldn't but every time he'd run gentle hands over his love's body and pleasure him because it's what he wanted to do. And to do. _And to do._

And so he did. Sweet times past counting, as we may have said.

What's the point, you ask? Well it's just this: John is a giving man. He's kind. He's good. John's a big old fucking cuddle-muffin if you want to put a fine point on it. And John, the silly block-headed berk, is currently in denial about that fact.

Oh god is he.

* * *

John Watson slammed the damn door to 221 up against the wall, walked into the foyer, then slammed that damn black door closed behind him.

"Ha!" he said to no one in particular, then "ha!" again for good measure. "I'll damn well show—"

"John Watson _what are you doing to my walls?"_

She may have a dodgy hip but Elizabeth Hudson can move with alacrity when she so desires. And when you damage the walls of her flats, she _will_ hasten and she _will_ get testy about it.

John turned, frowned at the shut-tight door as if it had damn well slammed itself.

"It, uh, slammed itself. Wind. Some…wind. Sorry, I just…I'll hold on to it better next time."

Elizabeth Ariadne Westminster Hudson is not an idiot. She can spot a lying ex-army doctor at ten paces. She can also cause him to confess his fib in less than five seconds employing only three words.

But the person they still call Mrs. Hudson—yes, she was quite instrumental in their eventual union, and she planned every inch of the wedding—recognizes that delicate creatures (boys, they're all such fragile things) need their little bits of armour, so Elizabeth Hudson did not call her sweet little tenant to task.

"Well you go ahead and take care next time, John."

No, instead Liz Hudson smiled at her cuddly little renter, then nodded once, certain in the knowledge that sometime within the next day or two one boy or the other—or perhaps both (it happens more often than you'd think)—would probably be dropping by for a cuppa and a bit of a sit down.

As Mrs. Hudson returned to her flat John made sure the door to the street was well shut. He then checked the wall but found no door-handle-shaped dents in the least-alarming wallpaper you'll find at 221 Baker. Satisfied that he had not caused damage, John Watson returned to an emotional scene already in progress.

"Yeah, well…we'll just see, won't we," he said to absolutely no one as he took the stairs two at a time. "Fucking fluffy, fucking _fucking_ fluffy—well I'll, yeah, that's not even, they can just…"

John never finished the sentence because he wasn't even sure what the hell he was trying to say, but he knew it was stroppy and that it involved swearing and would soon involve sex, so he just strode into 221B, _slammed_ that door open, gasped-got-wide-eyed-went-oh-fuck-no, proceeded to close that door very, very, exceedingly quietly, then, with a deep manly breathe, a fearsome scowl and hands on his hips John Watson yelled, "Sherlock Holmes, get your god damn bodacious arse out here this instant."

Sherlock is many things: Willful. Newly married. Tall. Sexy. Macabre. Selectively deaf. Annoying. Not home.

However, John thought that if he yelled louder—with more sweary rage and stuff—maybe the consulting detective would spontaneously materialize.

"I won't say it fucking twice fuck it!"

The consulting detective failed to materialize, spontaneously or otherwise.

Oooooo, John was mad now!

"Oh I am mad now," he yelled me, "Seriously."

Why I didn't call my wee warrior on his inappropriate ire I can't say, but—

—well that's a lie actually, I can totally say why I didn't, and with iron-clad certainty. The reason I didn't call John on his silly fit of pique is because he is so completely, unequivocally, shamelessly my favorite person on the whole planet that he could probably start eating Sherlock's left foot—while it was still attached to the man in question—and frankly I wouldn't utter a word against him until John got at least to the tall git's slender knee.

_Wait. What?_

Okay, whatever, anyway, the point is is that someone really needed to tell John that he was being silly but the only person who right now was going to was a skull who played favorites and was about to, you know, _play favorites._ Yes, again, that would be me. Moving on.

_Talk to me best-beloved._

John got more scowly and threw his arms into the air and shook his head and just in general defined the term BAMF!flailing. "Sherlock needs to be home. _Now_. He's always home. Usually. If I'm at the Yard and he's not, he's at home. Why the holy hell is he not at home right now?"

_He's in the park, my delicious crumpet._

John was stomping around the sitting room so it took him a second to hear my reply. Then he swiftly stopped stomping and said, "Say that again?"

_Park. Him. In it._

There are words that go naturally with the words Sherlock Holmes: Gorgeous. Gruesome. Leggy. Lunatic. Eccentric. Easy (well, that one only if you're John). But no one in their right or wrong mind would put 'has gone to the park' anywhere near that man's name, not unless they also included 'because someone just found two half-eaten human arms there, their prints burned off with acid, each limb imprinted with a blue tattoo of a toothbrush.'

(Sherlock solved that one in two hours but only because it was John the dental-phobe who knew pretty much right away that those limbs belonged to a very, _very_ bad dentist.)

"You didn't just say the park."

_I did just say the park, my sweet little tart._

John and I have been talking for nearly two years now. He's used to me. And besides John _is_ a tart so, well, you know.

"Say more, because what you're saying is madness."

_I can give it to you in three words John._

John scowled with a very 'well get on with it' air.

_Forensic Pathology Today_

John started stomping round the sitting room again. "Well doesn't that just figure. I mean seriously. He has to get an issue of that _today_ does he?"

None of us can really remember when the tradition started, but start it did: The one where the men of 221B decamp to Regent's Park to laze in the sun when an issue of Sherlock's favorite grisly periodical arrives.

Always before the consulting detective prolonged his pleasure by waiting for John to accompany him to the park for the gleeful reading. Today's issue must have been truly lurid in its enticements to inspire Sherlock to brave a pretty spring day alone.

John stopped stomping again. "Actually, this is perfect. _Perfect._ I will show everyone in that _park_ how completely fucking not fluffy I am."

John glared at me as if I would attempt to dissuade him. I did nothing of the sort because honestly I wasn't even sure what the heck he was on about. I was marshalling words to that effect when John grinned and said, "Ha! Let the aggressive sex begin!"

_Wait. What?_

Well then. Really now? In that case and to be frank I wouldn't have tried to dissuade John right then even if you'd offered me a brain, a body, and the chance to psychoanalyze Boris Damn Johnson. No, seriously.

—

_More build up. Well if there's no dramatic fucking at least try to make it funny, right? Right? Oh please don't be that way. There will be sex. Growly, aggressive, slammy sex. I promise._


	3. Chapter 3

That London day was awesome. Really it was. The breeze was temperate, the air fresh, the leaves dancing pretty on the trees.

Ordinarily John would see these things. He sees _and_ he observes where beauty is concerned, unlike Sherlock who must be grasped at the wrist, tugged slow, and have his chin lifted, turned, his gaze guided. "There," John often says, pointing at something lovely. "Stop a moment and look at it Sherlock. Breathe deep. It's beautiful. See that. Don't be proud of _not_ seeing it. Look. Just look."

And Sherlock will. Because the thing _is_ beautiful and he's learned that beauty is its own reward. It has no other purpose, it's true, and so it should not deserve space on his hard drive but, because of John, Sherlock's given it space.

Anyway, today it was John who didn't see.

Which was actually not true. John saw. He's like Sherlock in this way, he can't help but notice some things. Only instead of clues and crime John sees magnificence, grandeur, or a pretty, pretty day.

But today he said to himself, "Screw it," and he strode through the park hunting for his husband, he kicked lovely leaves with his angry shoe (yes, his shoe was as furious as he was because John Watson is so BAMF he can even make _attire_ channel his rage, _hell_ yes).

So _anyway_ John strode through that park like a tiny tornado of, of, pissed-offedness and he kicked leaves and scowled at squirrels and he glared at a hissing goose (tossed it that bit of muffin he had in a pocket though) and seriously he was not messing around with the _I will totally show you,_ and then there Sherlock was off in the distance and for a second John stopped stomping and he stared.

Yes, so help him, John has been married for six weeks and living with that man over there for more than two years and he will actually still stop dead and _stare_ sometimes because no one, no one on earth believes in true love and a song in the heart and joy this god damn intense, even the person experiencing it and John Watson was getting hit between the eyes with it again, right now, just looking at that long body stretched out on cool spring grass, a froth of fallen leaves spinning round his true love, one landing with a flat splat on the man's pert arse and John grinned, standing there a couple dozen feet distant he thought _even botany is powerless before that bum._

Yeah, John grinned all gooey and emotional and sweet and he sighed and smiled and was about to drift on over there and touch those lovely pale cheeks (even he wasn't sure which set he meant), and then John Watson remembered he was _angry_ damn you, he was _irked_ thank you, he was _so not fucking fluffy._

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

Sherlock glanced up with a small only-for-John smile. John glared down and grumped:  "What the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock raised brows into fringe. John glanced at that leaf still on Sherlock's bum.

"Why are you so angry?"

Sherlock could have _told_ John why he was vexed but it's been two years and he has learned at least this: John wants to use his own words to elucidate his ire. Or his passion. Or his boredom. Or what the heck he had for breakfast. _Whatever_ it is, John likes to be the one to _say_ what it is.

And so despite the fact that Sherlock already knew this had something to do with John's petite charms and his kindness and his overall gentle nature, Sherlock did not say one damned word. He did not deduce. He literally bit his lips and looked up at John and he waited for that small imposing creature to use his words.

"Angry? _Angry?_ Angry does not even begin to cover what I am. It isn't even the butter on my bread. It's barely the milk in my fucking tea—" (No one, including John, had one clue what he was trying to say here.) "—angry is barely touching on what I am. What I am is so epically beyond angry that there isn't even a word for it yet. Okay? All right?"

Sherlock blinked up at John. He said nothing. _Not one thing._

Because another thing Sherlock has learned over his years with this man is this:

Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, John Watson's not perfect.

Stop laughing. No, seriously, stop it. Because it's true. Even I know it's true and I am so devoted to our tiny titan that I pretty much coo when he enters the room. Anyway, it may seem from the outside that that small bamfy, ragey, kittenish creature is without flaw but honestly he's riddled with them. Just epically so not perfect you wouldn't believe it.

Consider:

John Watson is so patient with so many people that he is last in a queue for just about everything. Honestly, if you go to a buffet with the man you will probably starve to death. That's because he will not queue until everyone's been through at least once and the problem with that is before everyone's gone through at least once the idiots that were first are already queuing for seconds and so he'll wait for _them_ to clear out and then the laggards who went through at the end of the first wave are ready for _their_ second helping and you see where we're going with this? You will be dead of hunger before John even so much as touches an unbuttered roll.

Also, John is annoyingly good at not taking sides unless he absolutely has to. You could be Satan on a fucking Vespa carting off kittens and the last unicorn and John, if there's time, would try and start a dialog with you, he would attempt to understand the _why_ of what you're doing if he can. If he can not then he will shoot you through the heart and worry about the powder burns later but before that he's so seriously not going to make judgments.

Right, I'm very aware that in naming a few of John's flaws I've actually hijacked strengths and painted them up to look like failings but now I've got a real one and that one is this: For a man as patient and understanding as John is, he's ridiculously easy to infuriate.

Attend:

If John orders buttered green beans at a restaurant and he is brought unbuttered green beans at that restaurant John Watson can go on for the next _hour_ about it. He can get in a heroic strop so out of proportion to the stimuli that on more than one occasion the boys have returned home, Sherlock has herded a still-complaining John up the stairs and into the flat, steered him to the bedroom, and stripped him of his clothes before the good doctor so much as notices they're no longer dining out. And that's fine because usually by that point Sherlock is either _under_ John or _in_ John and the good doctor has stopped his whinging long enough to forget why he was whinging and also to orgasm and then fall asleep and there you have it.

Now. Are we clear? About the John Watson is so not perfect thing? Good.

So, despite the fact that Sherlock already knows his husband is off on some pointless tangent, understanding the fact that a few choice words could probably pacify his pique, even so Sherlock does not speak for he knows that if he does not say the precisely right thing John is going to do that thing, that thing that is _so confusing_ that Sherlock still doesn't know how to handle it when it happens.

And that thing is this: John will get _so_ incandescent in his rage, so apoplectic, so ready-to-brave-powder-burns that John drops his chin to his chest and he looks at the offending irritant _through his lashes._ And guess what. You just _guess_ what. John looks so god damn delicious when he does that that even Sherlock—the man so in control of his sex drive that he can be three seconds from tipping over into orgasm and he can actually _stop thrusting and pull out_ and have a perfectly normal conversation within seconds (I know, that boggles my mind as well and I don't even have one anymore)—anyway _that_ in-control man gets so turned on by that look that even _he_ can barely deal with the hot gush of sexy hell-yes-hormones that flood his system.

The point is, Sherlock does not exactly court that chin-down-lashes look unless he's willing to have his brain go instantly offline. Or sexually online, which is actually the same thing. For Sherlock.

 _Anyway,_ the point I'm desperately trying to make is that Sherlock bit his plump lips and he just let John rail because if he didn't just let him go, there could possibly be the lashes-chin thing and confusion and irk and anyway let's just get back to a hissy fit already in progress.

"—fluffy, you know? Because look at me. Just look, mister." John gestured to his entire person. "War wound. You better believe it. As in tough-as-nails, kinda died but got brought back to life, bad ass mother fucker war wound. Right? Yes? How's _that_ for fluffy? And also? Also? Scars, Sherlock, scars. Arm, hand, thigh. No, calf. No thigh. _Anyway._ Fucking scars. All right? As in—"

Something smacked up against the back of the good doctor's leg. He turned to find a wheezy old half-deflated football and two eight year olds standing a dozen yards off staring at him wide-eyed. He smiled, waved, tossed the tired thing back to the girls and then turned, looked down at Sherlock again.

"—plural? As in more than one? Yes? I have—" here John lowered his voice "—shot nasty people in cold blood and went out for a nice Chinese dinner after, you know. I have performed surgery in the middle of gunfire and in one case during a quite epic _bombing."_ John frowned and went briefly quiet. A very pretty, fluffy white swan squawked in the distance and John Watson's frown quiet possibly transmogrified into a biological weapon and he summed up his rant right then, right there, and with just a few words.

"So. Well. I'm done. I need you to stand up, Mr. Holmes-Watson and come with me. Because I am going to fuck you now. So hard and so fast your teeth chatter. So roughly and so relentlessly that you're going to need a cold compress and an NSAID after. We are going to have the most angley, sharp, primitive sex we have ever had ever."

And there, right there, John paused and he took a deep breath and he waited. Yes, he politely waited for, you know, _permission._

Which so has nothing to do with fluffy and kind and sweet and good and John, right? _Riiight._

 _Sigh._ Sometimes my very favorite person in the whole world is an idiot.

—

_We're getting to the slammy-slammy sex. I promise, it'll be worth it._


	4. Chapter 4

**WARNING: Consensual but aggressive sex ahead, includes breathplay.**

John was in a righteous strop that apparently only rough-and-tumble sex could alleviate, and despite knowing exactly what to do to short-circuit the whole thing Sherlock _did not do it._

Again, we must say—I, _I_ must say—that Sherlock has learned many things in his two plus years with John and one is _shut the hell up and let the man have his tantrum._

Which is to say Sherlock is a giant big baby and it takes one to know one. So Sherlock understood that if John didn't get some of this out of his system, that if he didn't express his frustrations in this deeply primal way, well, a silly trifle of a problem just might become an actual, you know, _problem._

So when John reached out as Sherlock rose off that grass, grabbing his hand so hard it hurt, Sherlock said nothing. And when Sherlock bent down to pick up _Forensic Pathology Today_ (open to page 58 and _the_ absolute best slide of a botulism-infected human lung that Sherlock's ever seen) and John barked, "Leave it," Sherlock actually _left it._ (John's going to come back later and fetch the thing. No surprise it'll still be there because seriously, _who would want it?)_

Anyway, quiet as a quiet thing Sherlock allowed himself to be tug-yanked along behind John, brain blazing through dozens of responses he could offer that might not only improve the situation but get them on a more even footing because, though Sherlock's good with the whole tiny tyrant thing, well today he wasn't really in the mood to be pushed around because frankly—

"Shut it."

_What now?_

"I said 'shut it.'"

Consulting detective eyebrows lofted into dark fringe again.

"I can hear you thinking and scheming and trying to get your bossy hat on, mister. But know this: today I am the boss of you. For the next several hours I am so totally the boss of you."

Like I said, John's not perfect and here's another example: He is so totally abusing his super powers right now. Because John _knows_ several things: Sherlock never expected to have someone love him, much less fall _in_ love with him. That John did and does is still a daily miracle to my boy genius. Now take that miracle and smear it with epic, because not only does John love Sherlock, he actually wanted to and _did_ tie his life to the lanky idiot's in a way that shouted, "Me? I'm all yours. Always."

Which is the long way of saying Sherlock is still so deeply amazed that he managed to actually _get himself a husband,_ that you just better believe he's in no hurry to break his new bridegroom in any-way-at-all-ever. Times infinite.

And the _point_ is that John knows this. So he knows that he can, to a certain degree, be entirely unreasonable and the man to whom he's six-weeks-married will cosset him. Against every instinct in his body Sherlock will mollycoddle. He will pander. He will spoil.

Or, he will damn well _shut it._

"Good. Thank you. That's very nice. Now tell me Mr. Holmes-Watson: Would you like to drop those pretty trousers and rough up your knees in the alley back behind the music academy, or shall I slam you against the chain link fence south of Greenwood Gardens and give it to you up the arse?"

They were on the pavement outside Regent's Park now, waiting for the light to change so they could cross and yes, at least three people heard what John said. He swiped his hand under his nose and snuffled in a loud, manly way to show everyone gathered that he so did not care.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was so stunned at this not!John behaviour he didn't answer.

Fortunately right about then it began to rain.

I say fortunately because come on. No seriously, _come on._ You know, I know, and in some deep part of him _John_ knows he is so not going to actually do these things to Sherlock. Or if he does them he's, well, he's not going to do them the way he _thinks_ he is. But that's beside the point. Because of the rain. The few dribbles that justified John saying "Fuck it. Or rather we are not going to fuck it. Not in the rain. Back to the flat it is then."

Since, at this juncture, they were more or less in front of their own black door this was a pretty convenient decision.

"All right then. After you," said the doctor, gesturing.

Sherlock had a brief, creepy feeling that John was going to eat him the moment he turned his back. It was an illogical sensation, he readily admits, but there wasn't a whole lot about the current goings on that smelled, looked, or tasted particularly reasonable.

Sherlock continued to say nothing, just opened the door and went on in, John close behind. Once they reached the door of 221B John took over, unlocking, opening, walking through first then closing the door behind Sherlock—unusually gently, actually.

He then about-faced smartly, squared those fine shoulders, lifted his chin. "Nothing sharp in your pockets?"

Sherlock thought about that. After a moment he removed from his left pocket a pen knife that had been stuck open for three days; he kept forgetting to fix it. He thought some more and took a three hundred pounds, platinum-nibbed fountain pen from his right pocket, a birthday gift to Mycroft when he turned 22; Sherlock had pick-pocketed it from him during one of his summers home. Finally Sherlock shook his head.

"No breakables?"

Sherlock grunted a negation but then remembered John's iPod in his back pocket and tugged that free. Oh, and the ear buds in his other back pocket. Again, he shook his head no.

On the second downward dip of his sweetheart's chin John grabbed two fistfuls of shirt front, _yanked_ Sherlock so close their noses briefly touched, then jerked, twisted, and released so precisely that Sherlock's back slammed exactly in the middle of the flat's front door.

 _Aggressive Sex With Your Willing Partner:_ Step one: Make a bold first move—done to text-book perfection.

John launched himself at Sherlock, mashing one hundred and seventy centimeters over as much of one hundred and eighty-four as he could manage—mostly in the region of the mouth. Both men winced when teeth bruised flesh but only one of them laughed.

"Knew you'd like this," growled John.

 _Aggressive Sex With Your Willing Partner:_ Step two: Get your partner so instantly on board he initiates step three.

The consulting husband raised his arms over his head, spread his legs, and positively _yowled._

John can never _not_ respond to Sherlock's vocalizations. They seduce, tempt, tease. They thrum his heart to triple time, they make him need.

They also make him mash his entire front up against Sherlock's and shove his tongue into that moaning mouth as if seeking the source of the sounds and quite possibly swallowing them, their maker and—

_—Shove_

Sherlock pushed, twisted, and now it was John's back slammed up against the front door and then Sherlock did the thing only he can do in this fine marriage, he _loomed,_ arms raised, body, shoulders, legs, all of him a cage around the smaller man, and he looked John in the eye and he moaned again, lavishly, his mouth open, head tilted back, as if he would come, as if all it would take was—

_—Down_

Caught up in his own damn dramatics Sherlock didn't register the quick rake of fingers in his hair until the terrible wrenching pull brought him to his knees.

Neurons and nerve endings—maybe they're the same thing, I don’t actually know—but they can scream in both pleasure and pain _at the same time,_ and cross just the right wires at just the right time—and by that I mean don't give the body or the brain time to know what it's feeling exactly—and in reflex a tall man will instinctively return fire, reaching up and grabbing two fistfuls of polo shirt, pull-tripping a small man to the floor.

They both heard the thunk of John's head striking the boards and frankly _that,_ the feel and the sound of it, caused John's own spontaneous reaction which was to _not let go_ of Sherlock's shirt and so—

_—Bam_

Sherlock collapsed on top of John with one hundred percent of his weight and the doctor could. not. breathe. And then he could because with thrashing legs and crazy-strong arms he leveraged Sherlock off him but in such an awkward fashion the tall man twisted, landed on his hip, and then quick-smart was on his back on the floor _his_ head striking against boards and—

_—Slam_

Sherlock was _up_ again, back on top of John, moving like a fucking _acrobat_ thanks so much, crushing down on the smaller man and diving down until chin dug into shoulder and _teeth_ dug into neck so hard John _howled_ and—

_—Grip_

Short, powerful legs clamped around ridiculously broad hips, and John grabbed a fistful of hair at the back of Sherlock's head and jerked that head sideways and _bit back_ so hard Sherlock shuddered from crown to crotch, reflex driving fingernails into John's shoulder, then _conscious_ decision driving a thumb into John's scar and—

_—Crash_

The damned coffee table, how did they get all the way over to—

Didn't matter, John was sitting heavy on Sherlock's stomach, breathing fast and looking down at his—

_—Fuck_

The god damn coffee table again, this time John's head clipping the corner and when Sherlock froze for an instant, about to—

_—Again_

How many times can two thick skulls slam against a floor before someone's permanently—

_—Damn Well Again_

Sherlock is bigger than John in almost every dimension and heavier too, so when six dense feet flipped John over and landed fast on his chest John impacted the floor with his _skull_ mostly and then he went breathless again and when Sherlock, the bigger man, the heavier man, the man who _did not start this_ put his large hand over John's mouth in such a way that he also pinched John's nose closed and John _really couldn't fucking breathe…_

They froze for a second and Sherlock actually _wanted to keep his hand there until John did something,_ but that scared him so he let go and got a shin to the groin as thanks then John levered him off, tumbling him to the floor splayed-legged and propped up on his own arms—

_—Down_

They were barely a metre apart but John body-slammed him anyway and down Sherlock went, my own skull throbbing in sympathy when I heard the fifth? sixth? strike of a hard head against hard woods.

This time Sherlock was expecting him so he rolled as John made contact, using the momentum of John's body to again pin the smaller man under him. Baring his teeth he went for John's shoulder again, driving sharp canines in to sensitive scarred—

_—Fire_

Even through his shirt John's raking nails left a trail of flame and it may have been instinct that arched Sherlock away from the pain but it was something else entirely that scrabbled him to his knees over John, yanking the doctor's arms over his head pinning them there with one hand while the other—

_—Seeking_

John pushed his mouth into Sherlock's big hand, seeking, wanting, _asking_ to have it covered, shaking his head until two of those long fingers pinched around John's nose and—

_—Confusion_

Sherlock understands pain and desire for pain and a need to be stripped to his most elementary parts but the moment John wants, needs, asks for the same Sherlock's great big brain crashes and he's left holding his breath and waiting for John, his lover—no, John's his husband now, his _husband—_ to guide him because in the reading of Johns, in the understanding of this need, the need that says, _yes, you can do to me what you want me to do to you,_ in that Sherlock's stupid as the stupidest man who has ever lived and—

_—Yes Yes Yes_

John never would have thought he'd _want_ to feel his breath trapped in his lungs—for just a moment, just a few—but he did, so help him he did, and the longer Sherlock's hand covered his mouth the harder his cock got, the louder he moaned, the more he thrashed and now, now, now it was time to—

_—Down Again_

Sherlock was under him but only for a second because almost instantly Sherlock used his mass to shove John off, to stand up, to _yank_ John upright by a big fat handful of hair and to drag-push him toward their bedroom, but John—every nerve ending in him screaming with the pleasures of this beautiful violence—stopped short knowing, certain, positive that Sherlock would tug so hard and no harder and that's precisely what he did, letting go of John's hair the moment he resisted and the second Sherlock did _that—_

_—Crash_

This time the wall, Sherlock's back hitting so hard the flat trembled with the force of it and Sherlock laughed again, deep and low, then darted a long arm out snake-quick, grabbed John hard by the jaw, jerked, spun, and used his own body to slam the small man into the plaster, where—

_—Fuck_

John didn't say it but the gust of indrawn breath, the near-shout of pained surprise, and then the throaty laugh when Sherlock god damn grabbed him between the legs, palming-pressing-rubbing the good doctor's rock-hard cock through jeans was all he—

_—Now_

Again, by the hair, one of Sherlock's hands fisted into John's, yanking his head back and with the other arm _picking_ his husband up at the waist, nothing elegant about it but he had him, he _had_ him and he wanted rough? Sherlock drag-walked toward their bedroom because he'd show John rough, he'll take his sweetheart apart and—

_—Here_

John went limp as a ragdoll as Sherlock stumble-tripped past the stairs, dragging them both down until two pairs of knees slammed against uncarpeted wood, both men twisting until one was under, the other over and the angles between stair treads and risers were cutting into palms and back and both of them grunted, breathless with the good, good pain.

Back bowed hard John reached up, pulled Sherlock down into a kiss, then thrashed beneath him turned onto his belly, got purchase on the treads with his knees and—

_—Stop_

Everything stopped.

In the sudden silence both heard the breathless rasping of the other, just about heard the thoughts in one another's heads.

_Do it._

_I can't do it._

Belly pressed hard against the stairs, Sherlock heavy on top of him, John groped at the man behind and shoved his arse up against Sherlock's cock as hard as he could.

"John…"

The good doctor bucked hard, "I'm asking," he panted, "…it's not wrong if I'm asking."

Forehead pressed between John's shoulder blades, his entire body still as his hammering heart was not, Sherlock said, "Tell me."

John pushed himself harder against Sherlock, "I want it," he growled, claw-scrabbling at the treads for purchase so he could shove-push-thrust back again and again and again, _"I want it, I want it, I want it."_

So softly it was barely words, Sherlock whispered, "What? What do you want?"

The good doctor huffed hard, frustrated. He understood this need for reassurance, he got it, he really did, but there was a part of him that didn't want to say the words, he wanted Sherlock to just god damn _do it._

"Fuck me in the arse on these stairs, Sherlock. Don't ask, just do. Hard, very hard, as hard as you can and rough and however you want it, anyway you want it for as long as you want it."

John wanted not!fluffy? Well this was its essence. This was a dark place to which even riding crops hadn't taken them. On the outside, in the world beyond the doors of 221 Baker, people thought it was Sherlock who danced them close to the dark. They had no damned idea.

On knees and belly, stairs digging into strange places, John was suddenly alone.

Sounds not distant, a small surprised murmur, a slam.

John didn't move, didn't speak.

Sherlock returned and though he moved, he too didn't speak.

Hands reached round hips, tugged, after a few seconds John's trousers and pants were at his thighs and Sherlock's slicked up cock—John would find out later it wasn't lube he'd got out of the kitchen—was pushing into him, rough, fast and hard.

And they were both breathless again, just like that.

John stopped supporting his own weight—grunted as the stairs dug in harder—reached behind him and pulled Sherlock by his hips. _Hard, hard, hard_ those scrabbling hands said, _as hard as you can._

Sherlock did it. As hard as John wanted, here, on the damned steps leading to that rare-used upstairs bedroom, a hand sliding up along John's neck and then over his mouth.

John grunted his pleasure, closed his eyes and concentrated on Sherlock's heavy body pressing down on him, sucked in a quick breath with each pounding of broad hips.

Sherlock rammed home fast, then faster still, anxious to _get there,_ to give John what he wanted but to _stop giving it this way_ as quickly as possible.

So, though he's been known to tease until John's teeth ached, today was so very much not going to be one of those days. Sherlock counted the minutes in his head, and when he reached three precisely he began keening, the arm supporting the bulk of his weight started to shake, and as soon as John started thrashing and moaning beneath him Sherlock started to come.

Later he would admit it wasn't the best orgasm he'd ever had. The sensation washed through him cold, sharp and fast, there and gone.

In the last two years with this tall, strange man John's opened up like a flower under a rare sun. He's learned to give things he never thought he could give, learned to want things he never expected he'd want.

But Sherlock? To his surprise he's learned there are places he won't go with John, and things he very much will not do to him.

Both hands holding his weight so that he was barely pressing against this man who is the best of all men Sherlock knows, Sherlock kissed John's neck over and over, whispering just once, "I'm sorry."

And right there they could've started a slow dance into the dark if they so desired, but halle-fucking-julah John started giggling like a god damn loon. (Loons are fluffy you know, very very _fluffy.)_

"Oh what the fuck for, baby? That was god damn magnificent. I'm gonna hurt for a week." John's entire body vibrated with glee. "I'm going to have bruises in places that have never seen the sun. I need an aspirin. And an orgasm. Because, by the way, my cock's so hard I think I'm going to pass out."

Sherlock grinned against the back of that warm neck and, sliding an arm round John's waist he tugged until they were both standing, tall front to small back.

"I don't understand you," said the man who understood everything. "You confound me."

John squirmed, tried to turn, but Sherlock tightened his grip, twisted, sat heavy on the stairs, tugging John after him and onto his lap.

"Relax," he whispered, stretched long and awkward along those treads, back of his ankles hooked around the front of John's calves, hand sliding to his husband's cock. "Easy."

With a sigh John settled boneless against his 'baby's' chest, head lolling along his shoulder, trust complete. With a soft huff of breath against John's ear Sherlock started jerking him slowly. _Very_ slowly.

"Welcome…to…the club my love," John groaned, thrusting into that fist to no avail. That fist—well the man who owns it—has had two years to learn how to tease John; by now the teasing is instinctual. "Haven't understood you since the moment I laid eyes on you…and wanted to lay you."

Sherlock brushed that fine mouth against John's ear. "Liar," he growled, teeth grazing sweet-tender flesh. "You understand…" his hand moved a little faster "…everything."

John understood that he wanted to come, and that he ached everywhere in a terrible, good, perfect way. He also understood that he wanted, he so very much wanted—

The hand not jerking him off slithered slow along John's belly, across his panting chest, warm and heavy across his throat, and then up to his mouth, where one, long middle finger slid into his mouth until the damn thing pressed hard against the back of his throat…and then thumb and index pressed lightly against John's nose.

Only once John began to moan and suck in long hard pulls, did Sherlock pinch off his breath—and start to stroke.

Grabbing hold of his husband's hips John writhed. He arched his back. He growled and thrashed and spread his legs. What he didn't do was simply open his mouth around the finger shoved in deep because _he didn't want to._

"Oh," Sherlock said, tightening both hands, "Oh, oh, oh," he panted, stroking faster. It wasn't until Sherlock started rhythmically pumping his hips and groaning low at his husband's ear that John grunted, opened his mouth, then shuddered through his orgasm, babbling a whole string of something or other that frankly neither Sherlock nor I could understand a single word of.

—

_Yikes. After all that build up I have no idea if I delivered or essentially just played 'Stayin' Alive.' Either way, one more funny!chapter on the way. I think you'll like it._


	5. Chapter 5

Good god the next day John and Sherlock looked like bodies someone'd fished out of the Thames. After a long holiday weekend.

Even in the pale light of morning it was easy to see John's left eye was puffy, and there were mottled bruises at his temple and either side of his jaw; he also had two stunning sets of teeth marks in his left shoulder, and a goose egg the size of a goose egg on the back of his head.

In that same wan illumination it was clear that one of Sherlock's hammerhead cheekbones now came in a very striking shade of purple and blue, and he sported _two_ goose eggs on his hard head. He also had a rather stunning array of scratches down his long back, and bite marks in two places on that interminable neck.

However, only John walked a little funny, mostly because in his haste Sherlock hadn't quite lubed up with as much, uh, butter as may have been necessary for smooth anal penetration. _Cough._ Let us not speak of this again.

Anyway, the point is, with all their little contusions my boys looked like Baker Street Irregulars who'd failed to find a nice bridge under which to kip the night before. As you have no doubt already predicted they were _super-cool-fine with this._

As a matter of fact, both my pretty idiots strutted around that flat like battered cocks of the damned walk. Shoulders back, heads high, smirks on mouths, and songs in their little black hearts, they swaggered like they were secret superheroes. It was positively juvenile.

It only got worse a week later when Sherlock said low and certain: "That's him."

The Baker Street boys both stopped dead in the open door of the Met's fourth floor lift. They'd been on their way to the air support unit via central operations via the morgue, with a detour to the cafeteria and the homicide and serious crime command. And then they saw him.

Because Sherlock had deduced the facts behind John's behavior that not!fluffy day, he knew all about the Met veteran who'd compared them to mated swans. So as they emerged from the lift, the lean, rangy, 70-something retired police officer with the slightly-long grey hair heading toward them was easy for Sherlock to recognize.

"Yes it is," John murmured.

Sherlock stood tall. "Well then, shall we?"

The retired detective, half a dozen metres distant, ambled toward them slowly, chatting with passing Met employees as he drifted near. As John and Sherlock stood awaiting the man's arrival, the lift doors kept trying to close. They could not, impeded as they were by the left shoulder of a detective and the right shoulder of a doctor.

John sucked in a fast breath, murmured sharply, _"No."_

Sherlock stood taller still, murmured softly, "You wanted this last week."

John murmur-hissed, "Only for a second. Let it go, Sherlock."

Sherlock murmured, sweet as honey, "I told you I'll do this without you."

John murmured, a bit loudly, "I'm not thirteen. I may have, you know, _temporarily_ been that day, but I'm good now. I don't have anything to prove."

The retired detective was fast approaching.

Sherlock's chin was nearly to his chest. He was looking up through lashes and his grin could only be called calculating. "I know you don't John, which is what makes proving it much more fun."

The lift doors tried close again, and like those damn doors, the good doctor knew he had exactly no leverage here. He'd lost his ever-loving mind last week and Sherlock had mollycoddled, he had pandered, he had spoiled. It was only right that John now do the same.

Right?

Because certainly John allowing Sherlock to do what he did next had nothing to do with, you know, _wanting_ to watch Sherlock do the thing Sherlock was going to do, to prove a pointless point to a damned _stranger._

Um, _right?_

Yes, well, believe what helps you sleep at night, that's what I always say.

At last the boys of Baker Street stepped fully out of the lift and toward the smiling man who had spent twenty-five years on the Metropolitan police force, lived through three riots, thirty-nine murder investigations, and one terrible night that had not only cost him four pints of blood and two days of memory, but the sure and certain knowledge that he was quite, quite mortal.

"Good evening, sir," purred Sherlock, holding the lift door for the Met vet—oh damn it his name is Steve, okay? Steven Marcus Piermont Davis-Howard, IV, all right? Moving on.

Mr. Davis-Howard the Fourth stepped into the lift, nodding. "Thank you sir."

"Think nothing of it," Sherlock squared his shoulders so that he appeared bigger, more imposing. "My dear John's trained me well."

John'd already moved down the corridor a couple metres at this point. Hearing his name he turned and, right there, he could have stopped things with a quick, "Come along Sherlock." So help him but he didn't.

Sherlock smiled shyly over at John to show who he meant. "He may be small," Sherlock purred, "but he's a difficult man to refuse." Leaning conspiratorially toward the old veteran Sherlock murmured, "Frankly, I don't even try."

Steve glanced over, caught sight of John, remembered him instantly. He emerged from the lift, extended a hand, "Nice to see you again John. This the mister, then?"

Sherlock let the lift door go and finally the damn thing headed down to the morgue as it'd been trying to do for the last two minutes.

John shook the man's hand, smiled, nodded in a curt, BAMFY, not!fluffy way.

Steve extended that same hand to Sherlock, "I've heard about you. Nice to meet you, sir. Your husband's all kinds of crazy about you."

Sherlock smiled the toothy grin of a beast barely tamed. (Don't ask me, I only work here.) (Okay, I think what my boys are going for here is _Sherlock's_ supposed to look all big and domineering and hard-to-control, right? And yet his behavior is supposed to imply that my _John_ is so bad arse he can bring to heel even this rough-and-tumble bit of manly manhood, all right? I'm _pretty_ sure that's what they're aiming for. As you will see, they are missing so ferociously I am just two hours from laughing myself stupid when John tells me about it all later.)

"And I'm crazy about John," Sherlock said with a significant look. "Would do anything for him. _Just absolutely anything."_

Steve grinned at the other tall man fondly. "Why you're just smitten kittens, the two of you."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, feral smile suddenly gone, eyes wide. "Excuse me?"

The rough-and-tumble veteran quite nearly ruffled Sherlock's hair. "Well don't you let him get away with too much, sweetie."

John confuse-blinked so fast he got dizzy. "What now?"

Steve grinned, ribbed John in the ribs. "My missus' as bossy as you, sir."

John was really, really confused. _"What now?"_

Steve chuckled, "Gets me jumpin' just like you get Sherlock here. Maybe me and your pretty mister should team up to resist yours and Annie's tyrannical ways." The lanky old veteran—seriously, he looked like he was from central casting—grinned and did that elbow-rib thing again, only this time to Sherlock. Sherlock actually let him.

"S'always been that way though. She goes 'jump' and I say 'how high and do you need anything while I'm up here.' It's embarrassing except I love her to pieces."

John was so, _so_ confused. "So…when you…"

"There was this time on a stake-out where she came along with soup, just like you see on those American cop shows. I started to read her the riot act and you know what she did?"

Sherlock tilted his head, completely nonplussed.

"She got my _partner_ on board with nothing more than the quirk of a brow. That man'd been on the force a good ten years at the time, and me a rookie and he just said, 'Steve, shut up and take the soup,' and so I shut up and took the soup and the point I'm makin' is…" Steve kind of sighed, looked at Sherlock. "You just go on and love him to pieces, mister."

It's not often you'll see Sherlock transform in front of you. Usually when he's tacked on a public persona, he maintains that damn thing come hell or high water. But right then? Right then you could actually see him soften. Go melty. Sort of dimple-y. And him without dimples.

Sherlock didn't say anything, but he held Steve's gaze awhile, and that said a couple dozen things apparently because the older man nodded eventually and, with one more elbow jab he said, "Now you two take care. Congratulations by the way," and then he turned toward the lift and within seconds was gone.

John and Sherlock stared after him a good minute before one of them eventually spoke.

"Well I'm an idiot."

"I told you that a long time ago."

John sighed, shook his head. He turned, lead their slow stroll toward ASU. "So…"

"No."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"Yes I do."

"No you don't."

"The answer, John, is _quite_ high."

"So if I—"

"Only at home. I have a reputation to maintain."

"No you don't."

"Shut up, John."

"I love you, you idiot."

"I know you do, mister."

_End_

_—_

_Not!flufy? Oh John, why do you even try? Even with contusions these two are god damn adorable._


End file.
